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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Sparky" data-source="post: 4443494" data-attributes="member: 13681">Ranver closes his eyes, the wind and rain that had parked itself over the city seemed to make more sense. Melora herself was raking the city with her grief. Her wrath.It is not Sister Anhela. He breathes a sigh of relief and offers a silent prayer of gratitude. He nods to Zarathas and Varilar and steps forward, straightening as best he can the rain-wet robes and vestments. He looks rather more like a drowned rat than a Keeper of Anything. But he draws himself up and strides toward the trio.The sight that greets him as he rounds the corner causes him to miss a step. His eyes race around the sanctuary from one defilement to another. To the words slashed across the wall. To the shattered statue. And the grim old men and the fuming child.He steps forward, his mouth drawn into a grim line and kneels at the High Priest's feet, waiting to kiss the man's ring, as befit his lofty station (and Ranver's rather less-lofty station).He stands and addresses both elder men. His speech isn't nearly as booming or smooth as he'd like, certainly not Zarathas' warlike bellow, but it is even, firm, sincere. If slightly breathless from the race through the city streets."Your Eminences, how may we aid our sister temple?" He falters slightly on 'we' not feeling entirely comfortable roping his friends into this without discussing it first, especially when it seemed there were other offers on the table that the evening's violence interrupted.</blockquote>

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